


Blondes

by yanatya



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M, PWP, Standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-07
Updated: 2005-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanatya/pseuds/yanatya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donna, Sam, and Ainsley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blondes

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday fic for kiss_me_cassie, who asked for _any two or three from J/D/S/A_ without being more specific.

Sam is fastidious in his choices when it comes to lovers, but no one has ever accused him of having bad taste.

Beautiful or handsome, willowy or muscular, creamy or tanned, if his past liaisons were ever collected together in the same room, you'd think you'd stepped into a superhero convention, or at the very least spokesmodels.

Not that Sam is such a shallow man, or even conscious of his choices in this respect. When he reflects on his standards for romantic or sexual partners, he knows he is choosy. But in his mind, his criteria instinctively go to "smart, and funny, too" or "a really sweet person" or even "a good heart, in the right place."

Which is exactly what he's thinking applies right now, while also acknowledging, humbly, that he is quite possibly the luckiest man on earth. He's also, in the very back of his mind where the primal urge to assert and dominate over other members of one's familial group exists in all humans, regretting that he's too much of a gentleman to ever flaunt the details of this experience to the other males in his pack.

He doesn't put it exactly like this, of course. He's actually trying strenuously to avoid composing a letter in his head that begins, "Dear _insert name of men's magazine here_, I can't believe this actually happened to me..."

It's difficult to resist, especially since he's always been a writer at heart, but the idea of keeping himself detached enough from this experience to observe is, in the end, unthinkable.

So he gives up and lets himself fall into the sensations the next time long blonde hair brushes across his nose and knees simultaneously. His surrender is palpable, and the hands and mouths ministering to him respond accordingly. For a few minutes he's incapable of reciprocating at all; his eyes are slits through which he watches, dazed, as two blonde heads rove over his body, kissing and sucking and nipping.

Blondes. Growing up in California, he's been raised with a fine appreciation for that icon, the classically tanned, bikini-wearing California blonde. Neither of the ladies currently working their way towards his erect cock fits that stereotype, though, and both would kill him for voicing it. Come to think of it, both would kill him for alluding to the similarity of their hair colours to that of anyone else, including each other's.

The blonde working her way from his feet to his groin is of the ivory-skinned, corn-fed Midwestern variety. Pale and perfect and luminous in the candlelight, her wide-eyed, fresh-from-the-farm nature has been aggressively harnessed over the years. She's overlaid it with a fine silk of sophistication that you think you can see through but in fact can't, and paired it with a mind like a steel trap that ensures anyone dismissing her as naïve comes away bleeding.

The blonde currently nipping at his pecs is another matter. The candle flame picks up her golden hair and skin in an entirely different way. She carries her heritage with her too, that of a Southerner who speaks her mind plainly and decidedly, who enjoys the cultured things in life but who flashes and sparks like lightning when her ideals are threatened. A challenger, a debater, with the intellect to confidently take on all comers.

That's why they're here, in his bed, naked. Because of who they are, not what they look like. The fact that they picked him too-that they decided to bend their combined brainpower and creativity to the task of pleasuring him-is the real turn-on.

Even though that tiny part of his mind that hasn't given up on the idea of writing a letter is observing that they aren't really twins, but it might be close enough, and why the hell is Josh so fascinated with brunettes?

They both reach his erection at the same time and both look up grinning when he yelps at the multiple sensations. Their eyes meet his with expressions so familiar: Ainsley's small, satisfied, quirky grin, with the mischievous glint she always has when she knows she's about to get the better of him; Donna's more veiled smile, hinting at mysteries that make a man speculate.

Then they catch each other's eyes, come to a silent agreement, and he sees two blonde heads dip, two pink tongues sliding perfectly in sync up the length of his cock, and he shouts for God.

They work in tandem to give him the best oral sex of his life. Nothing he's experienced has prepared him for this-he's drowning, flailing, near panic as he tries to keep from coming, unable to keep from bucking his hips, forcing his cock deeper into Ainsley's mouth, because Donna has found his balls and that place just behind them, and though he desperately wants to let go right now, _right now_, he also wants to be inside one or both of these women before the night is out.

He's shouting at them to stop before he knows it. They do, and he stares up at them, panting, as he tries to regain control.

Blondes, he thinks, and is suddenly extremely worried that he won't be able to handle them both.

They take over again, again silently, and he wonders how they've managed to coordinate so well. Ainsley rolls the condom down on him, preparing to climb on, while Donna moves up the bed and straddles his head, one knee on either side.

Ah.

He adjusts Donna so that her sex is over his mouth, and then lowers her down. His tongue reaches out. She whimpers and the bed behind him shakes, just a little, and he guesses she's grabbed the headboard for support.

Excellent. He grins and concentrates on her, her musky smell, her quivers, her smooth perfect skin heating around his face and under his fingers. Though not vocal, she's responsive and he wants to pay her back for the torture she and Ainsley inflicted. Lick. Nibble. Suck. Lick. Lick.

The tension in her hips winds up; he's successful. How many times, he wonders, can he get her to come?

Then Ainsley, whom he can't see because Donna's blocking his view of anything else in the room, climbs onto him and slowly puts his cock inside her.

Her inner muscles squeeze him tight and his entire body tenses. His thighs get rock-hard as his muscles contract. His fingers bite into Donna's hips. His lips, currently playing with Donna's clit, pinch down involuntarily and she squeals.

He wants to apologize for the latter, but realizes that Donna's actually coming and sobbing at the same time.

Soothing her with long licks, making his apologies silently, he's relieved to feel Donna relax, slowly, back into his touch.

Then Ainsley starts to move, also slowly, probably because she's realized what effect she had the first time. Patiently she stokes the flame for him, her hips wriggling, raising, lowering. It's amazing.

Donna comes again a few minutes later, less violently than the first jerk, but nevertheless loudly, and for much longer. When she tries to roll off him, though, he holds her hips in pace and starts again on her over-sensitized flesh, ignoring her whimper of protest.

Ainsley hasn't come yet, he realizes, and reaches forward with one hand blindly. A knee. He grasps it and lets his hand trail up, stroking the muscles of her thigh as she works herself up and down on him. Hair. A few springy curls. And there...there.

Right there.

A few moments of patient twiddling and caressing. Ainsley shrieks.

Excellent, he thinks again, smiling against Donna's now drenched sex. Where was he? Right.

He brings his hand back to Donna's hips and brings her over the edge once more.

While he's doing that, Ainsley finishes recovering and starts sliding up and down on his cock again.

This time, when Donna comes, she screams. He lets her roll off of him, exhausted, and watches her go fondly. What a wonderful woman, he thinks, and a really sweet person, too.

Ainsley clamps her inner muscles around him again, and his gaze swings back to her. She's making a silent demand. Her and him, alone, no interruptions, no excuses. She's beautiful and aroused and he welcomes the chance to make love with her.

Reaching out, he strokes her petite body; her legs, her stomach, her breasts. She leans into his hand and he squeezes her curves.

His hips lift, making time with hers now that he can concentrate on her fully. She feels amazing. Their rhythm is amazing. Her eyes are flashing with heat; a different heat than what he sees when they debate, and he perseveres with his hands and body to bring her to completion.

Trailing his fingers down to her cleft, he presses, then strokes, teasing. Bringing her close, then pulling back. Bringing her closer, then pulling back again.

Eventually she's frantic, grabs his wrist, makes him stay there. He smiles up at her lazily, then slowly starts one more time bringing her close, moving inside her, teasing and pressing and stroking until she can't take it anymore.

She convulses and shatters around him, crying out.

Then, finally, after all his self control, he begins bucking up into her body to finish himself off.

Those inner walls of hers have power untold. As she recovers, she continues clamping around him, tightening the fit, making the slide into her that much more rewarding.

His movements get jerky, less controlled, and she shifts and squirms and strokes him until, with a complete lack of finesse, pushes up into her one last time, coming with an incoherent shout.

Awe-inspiring. Fabulous. Miraculous, even.

She lifts herself off his cock and collapses to the side.

He can't move, but still winces a bit as Donna, on his other side, relieves him of the condom. The discomfort is brief, though, and then he has two blondes in his bed, one cuddled up to either side, the scent of their arousal filling his senses.

He snuggles down between them, and the little letter-writing part of him informs him that in no way is he ever to disclose the post-sex cuddling in public.

He doesn't care. These women, these amazing, generous, brilliant women, are here with him, and he's connected to both of them in a way that transcends sex. They're his friends and he's theirs; they have been for years, and though they couldn't have done what they just did while they were all working together, he's both happy and grateful to have deepened the connection now.

"You're the best," he murmurs, fighting off sleep just a little longer. "Both of you. The absolute best."

Their low chuckles make it into his dreams.

When he wakes a few hours later, some of the candles have guttered, but he can still tell he's spooned around Ainsley, while Donna is spooned around him. Ainsley is dead to the world, pursuing sleep with the same passion she does food and debate. Donna, however, is lightly stroking his chest.

He "mmms" to warn her that he's moving, then gently extricates himself from Ainsley and rolls over onto his back.

Donna's propped her head up on her hand and is watching him with those wide blue eyes that appear to say so much but don't give anything away.

He smiles hesitantly and she rewards him with that slow, mysterious smile of her own.

"That was great," he offers sincerely.

"Mmm." She nods, then trails her hand down his torso until she finds his semi-hard cock.

And apparently they aren't done, yet.

They reach for each other, kissing, stroking, limbs shifting and entwining, hooking their bodies together. It isn't the long, drawn-out pleasure-fest from earlier in the night. It's just them two, Sam and Donna, coming together.

She finds a condom, rolls it down. Their mouths meet, tongues slipping and playing together. He shifts above her, slides one hand under her hips and lifts her enough to probe her entrance with his erection.

When he draws back to meet her steady gaze, though, he suddenly knows something. Something he shouldn't be thinking about at all, and something he definitely shouldn't be thinking about at this moment.

He knows, all of a sudden, that she has never had sex with Josh.

It's a strange thing to realize right then, and even stranger is the way her expression changes, as if she knows exactly what it is he's thinking.

His heart goes out to her, this friend he's known since she really was a wide-eyed Midwestern girl and he a ridiculously naïve optimist. That she and Josh never reached an understanding, never even managed to share what he shares with Donna, just breaks his heart.

She blinks, somehow knowing what he's thinking now, and he realizes that his expression has changed to one of sympathy, because she pulls him down for a kiss to avoid eye contact.

So he lets the subject drop, enters her slowly, filling her tight passage, and makes love with her. Tenderly, gently, sharing long, deep kisses.

When he pulls back to look at her, many minutes later, he sees the spark of arousal in her eyes. She's forgotten all about the subject they never brought up, and as he pushes into her, he knows it's him she's thinking of, not a might-have-been.

He smiles down at her, a wicked twist at one corner of his mouth, and increases their speed. She moans and responds with her own body.

The tenor of their lovemaking changes. He starts getting creative, starts finding places his fingers can fondle, starts shifting angles as he enters her, doing his best to find ways to torment her, torture her.

She smiles, and tries to retaliate.

At some point he rolls-carefully, to keep from squishing Ainsley, who may or may not still be asleep what with the increasingly energetic fucking going on beside her-and Donna gets on top.

She's good at this too, and rides him hard, head flung back, blonde hair streaming over her bouncing breasts, her hips circling and dipping and raising. He knows he shouts out at one point.

Ainsley isn't asleep now. She's on her stomach, watching him, giggling at the expression of pure lust on his face, and then bending to caress his torso with her lips and tongue. Reaching out blindly, slipping his hand underneath her, he wiggles his fingers until she understands and wriggles up the bed enough that he can caress her clit.

He looks down his body at the two of them. Still riding him, Donna's leaned back and put her hands on his thighs for support. Ainsley, thanks to his fingers, is whimpering, draped almost fully across his chest.

Blondes, he thinks. Two of them. In my bed.

And then he isn't thinking anymore. The mattress is squeaking. He can hear what he guesses is the headboard thumping against the wall. His body is weighed down by warm, aroused woman in too many places to count. Overwhelmed by the sensations, he knows that all three of them are far past the point of no return.

Ainsley's grinding against his hand and he doubles his efforts, rewarded by a now-familiar shriek as she comes.

Donna's next. He pulls his still-damp hand away from Ainsley as she slides off him and goes to work on Donna's clit. Donna takes longer to coax to climax; seeing the teasing glint in her eye he guesses that's because she's enjoying herself and what she's doing to his self-control almost more than she wants to come.

Almost. He's successful when she suddenly goes rigid, contracting around him, and then slumps in a boneless heap on top of him, panting.

Her breath is in his ear as he seizes her hips and drives up into her again and again. She moves for him, just like before, and then he's groaning, muffling the sounds against the soft skin of her neck as he comes powerfully inside her.

Kissing him, she drinks in everything he has to give--

Bright white light suddenly fills the room.

The three of them jerk in surprise, blinking at the stark change.

Donna's still draped on top of him and his cock is still inside her, but he props up on his elbows and looks over her shoulder at the bedroom door.

"Buddy?" A familiar figure stumbles through the doorway. "Sam? I knocked, but you didn't... So I used my key."

Sam groans.

Ainsley sits up in bed, frowning. "Josh? Is that you?"

Donna, who had buried her face against Sam's chest, whips her head around to look at their unexpected visitor.

"Are you drunk?" Ainsley asks.

"Sam! Buddy. Sorry, you're with Ainsley." Josh squints. "Two Ainsleys? Good for you. Always knew you had it in you." He looks down at the floor, playing at covering his eyes. "Sorry. Sorry, man."

"Josh!" That's Donna's voice, strident and chiding.

"Donna?" Josh looks up, blinks. "Ainsley?" He looks back and forth between the two of them. "Donna?"

"Josh..." Sam says warningly, determined to throw him out on his ass if he doesn't leave in the next ten seconds.

He doesn't have to. Understanding dawns across Josh's face. "You? And you? And you? Together?"

"Yes, Josh," Donna says.

"Oh," says Josh, then faints, dropping like a rock to the bedroom floor.

Though Donna votes for leaving him where he fell, they drag him to the couch, remove his shoes, and provide him with a glass of water. Then they adjourn to the bedroom, relight the candles, and firmly lock the door.

END  



End file.
